


Aftermath: A Story of Discipline

by Sculder (Philer4Ever)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Discipline, M/M, POV Mulder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philer4Ever/pseuds/Sculder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder contemplates being disciplined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath: A Story of Discipline

God, I hurt. I thought I was going to pass out this time. I kind of wished I had then I wouldn't have to experience the humiliation of my sobbing. God knows each and every time I've gone through this, I've tried disparately not to cry. I've bitten into my hand, my lip, gritted my teeth, but still it's always inevitable. I believe it's what he wants anyway: my tears, my submission, my surrender. He doesn't seem to stop until he sees me sobbing pitifully. My tears are a sign that he has won, he has broken me. Finally gotten through. I know this and this is the reason I fight it. I'm stubborn that way. It's a battle. It always is. Who can hold out the longest, him with the blows or me with the pain? 

Who am I kidding? For me it's a losing battle. I don't know why I even bother. Now I'm not saying I'm a wimp when it comes to pain. I've had my share of it over the years and I've held up quite well if I do say so myself. I've been shot, punched, cut, slapped, kicked, choked, hit by a car, slammed into solid objects, had my finger broken, mauled by a gorilla, and I'm sure many other things I'd rather forget. Despite all that, I can't remember shedding a single tear. Oh I've wanted to, that's for damned sure, but I was always able to prevent it, control it. Now when it comes to the beatings, spankings, whippings, strappings or whatever you want to call it... well that's something else all together. 

The pain from a hard object impacting with full force numerous times on one's unprotected naked backside cannot be described. There are no words accurate enough. Words like burning, searing, aching, throbbing, stinging, biting and smarting can all be used, but there are still more sensations that can't be described in words. Raw, mind-numbing sensations that make you want to die. That's why blacking out would be welcomed, but I've never done it. Not once. 

In that respect, the Gods-- as usual, have not been merciful to me but that doesn't come as a big surprise. They have never been merciful, so why should they start now? No, my fate is to endure this, and I do. I don't die. Instead, I eventually give up my pride, my resistance, my insolence and my self-respect. 

At first, I find myself whimpering like a wounded animal. I don't even have the marginal comfort of movement. When necessary, his massive arms hold me in place. He never binds me or straps me down. Most of the time threats of more punishment will keep me from moving. Eventually my whimpering turns into wailing. I cry, beg, then bargain for him to stop. I apologize for every bad thing that's ever happened since the beginning of time. Anything I think might save my ass, literally, comes blurting out of my mouth. Of course, none of it works, not with him. 

One thing I can say about Skinner is he's merciless when it comes to disciplining me. It's probably the Marine in him. I don't know if I'm the only one he disciplines and I'm kinda' afraid to ask. All I know is with me, there is nothing that I can say that will stop him. The only thing I can express are my tears, my uncontrollable wailing-- sobbing that comes from deep within my soul. The kind of sobbing that only a man can produce under extreme distress. And the tears don't come because of the pain and the hopes that it'll make him stop. No, it comes because there's nothing left: No more control, no more defenses, no more stamina and no more resistance. It's all gone. All that's left are tears.

Now, this by no means says that as soon as the tears start flowing, he stops. Oh no. Basically, this just tells him it's starting-- my breaking. He can't stop right then because he has to make it count. That's why after the sobbing, pleading and so forth, he continues. This is where the mercilessness comes in. By this time, I'm trembling, almost convulsing. My throat is sore and hoarse from all the screaming and trying not to scream. He continues to pound my ass with whatever he's using at the time. Sometimes it's his hand, his belt, a paddle, wooden ruler, strap-- which is different from a belt. A belt is usually doubled in ones hand and a strap is a single strip of tough leather. Lord knows where he got it from... 

The thing about Skinner disciplining me is that he never treats it like a big deal. I mean he's never gone out and bought the instrument of my torture. It's always been something he already had, like his own belt, a table tennis paddle-- he had since his youth or a wooden spoon-- boy did that smart. Once I can even remember him using an extension cord, which was lying around the apartment. I should remember that, cause it hurt like hell. My ass was covered with millions of angry, red welts. Of course I'm exaggerating, but it sure felt like millions.

Now, about the strap-- that was a surprise. Why would one have a strap just lying around? What is a strap used for, other than the obvious? I've thought about this. The only thing I can think of is that he bought it. I cringe imagining him browsing BDSM shops for new implements to use on my ass. If he's going to start doing this -- I'm going to be really in for it.

Where he does it varies also. In the beginning it was just his office. He'd have me over the back of a chair, grabbing my ankles, or over his desk. During one humiliating session I'd rather forget, he had me across his knees, while he sat in his desk chair. Later on, we moved to my apartment where he had me across the bed, on the couch, the coffee table and even on the floor. He said he preferred to do it at my apartment because it was more private there. No one to knock on the door interrupting with some urgent something or other. 

It doesn't matter much to me where he does it, the pain is the same wherever it happens. He never did it at his apartment though. I figured he didn't want his neighbors being aware of anything. At my place, it didn't matter. I didn't really give a damn what anyone thought. So they hear me screaming. They've heard screaming and shouting from my apartment before and nobody ever came running to my rescue -- so fuck 'em. If I've got someone beating the shit out of me in there, what business is it of theirs anyway?

With all the beatings, one thing remains constant. He always has me bare-assed. It didn't matter where it was. My underwear and pants come down, sometimes come completely off. He usually leaves on my shirt to give me some dignity. On the occasions when I guess I really pissed him off, he makes me remove all my clothes. God, I hate when it happens that way. I always feel like I could just die from the embarrassment. I wish I could. I guess you could say what's the point of having a thin layer of fabric between hard leather and your skin? I mean, God forbid there is anything to cushion the blows or subdue the pain. There is nothing-- and I mean nothing-- like the feeling of hard smacks on bare skin. 

Where the whacks land varies also. Usually, Skinner concentrated on both sides of my butt: the right cheek, then the left cheek-- just below my waist to just above my thighs. The point where your butt meets your thighs-- Jesus, this area is really sensitive. The stinging sensation feels like someone is burning me with a lighted match. He usually used the belt or strap to do a good job but sometimes it didn't allow him to aim accurately. For accuracy, he'd use the wooden spoon or paddle. The size and hardness of the wood made it easier for him to even out the bruises. Belts and straps leave welts. Paddles distribute the bruises evenly, making a massive bright red area. Paddles and the spoon go exactly where you want them to go. 

I thought making contact with the sensitive area just below my ass was excruciating, but I had no idea how wrong I was. During one of our sessions while using the spoon, Skinner asked me to spread my legs apart. At first, I panicked thinking he was going to apply the spoon directly to my balls. Then I felt his hand spreading my cheeks apart. The next thing I feel is pain like I've never felt before in my life. He took the spoon and slapped it hard on the tender flesh between my cheeks. All through my screaming and fighting to escape, he moved the spoon along the length of my crevice. After thoroughly tenderizing both sides of that inner flesh, he moved to the insides of my upper thighs-- where my cock and balls hung. He pushed them aside and proceeded to smack the extremely tender flesh there-- numerous times, I might add. He doesn't stop until both sides have been addressed.   
There's no need to tell you the state I'm in after this. Sitting down was certainly not an option and walking was almost out of the question. Now, whenever I see he's going to use the wooden spoon or paddle on me, I know what I'm in for. 

With all that I've said about Skinner being unmerciful in beating me, I can't say he's not a compassionate man. I've always known he hated doing this to me. Whenever I look at him, he's wearing a mask of determination. No emotions are visible. Just a stern controlled expression. No evil smiles, no smirks, not even a look of rapture. He really hates this but he knows it's something he has to do for my own good. 

As clichéd as that sounds, it's the truth. He's saving me from myself with these little sessions of ours. You see I can be very stubborn at times. Trying to keep myself from crying during a beating, when I know it's inevitable, proves my point. This stubbornness is challenged by this kind of discipline. Skinner knows this and now I've come to know this, too. As much as I hate it, I know I need this. It curbs my reckless impulsive nature, which I know could get me-- and those around me-- killed. 

You’d think I’d hate him, but you'd be wrong. Sure, I'm planning his death as I'm trying to endure the pain, but afterwards all I feel is relief and gratitude that the pain has finally come to an end. Instead of wanting to punch his lights out, I want kiss his feet. I feel closer to him during the aftermath of a punishment. It's almost like he's my Lord and Master and I'm his humbled submissive slave. I want him to know how sorry I am and I won't do anything like that again. I would do anything he said at that moment to show him how penitent I was. Yeah, I would do that-- after the torment, I'd say or do anything to keep this from happening again anytime soon. 

Now this brings us to the present: the aftermath of yet another punishment. We're in my apartment. I'm completely naked, lying face down on my couch with a pillow under my hips to raise them. A fine sheen of sweat covers my body. My head is resting on my folded arms and I'm sobbing, the kind where you can't catch your breath. I really hate when I do this. It makes me feel like a kid, even more so than being spanked. I don't have to mention I did something really bad this time, at least something he thought was really bad. No need to give you the details, but I will say that he was really angry and he let me know it. My punishment was particularly bad this time, but doesn't it always seem that way? 

He used both his belt and paddle on me. God, do I hurt. I'm lying here, feeling all the sensations of just having your ass thoroughly warmed-- and I do mean warmed. It's a cold night, and you could warm your hands nicely from the heat emanating from my red, hot buns. There are no words that truly describe the way my ass feels right now. I want to bring my hands around to rub it, but I don't. I don't because I'm waiting for something better. 

Not long afterwards I hear him approach me. He usually doesn't wait very long, just long enough for me to regain some of my composure. He waits for the wailing to once again become soft whimpering. He places a palm full of soothing ointment lightly over one of my battered cheeks. I groan and feel myself tremble. I hear him making calm soothing sounds near my ear. He begins to rub me in gentle circular motions. It makes me sigh. God, it feels good. This is the compassion I mentioned earlier. It happens each and every time, without fail. I can look forward to it and Lord knows I do. It's the only thing that gets me through it all: the thought that he will be there to comfort me afterwards. He stops a moment to apply more ointment to his hand and moves to my other cheek. Again I groan and tremble, lifting my ass slightly to meet his hand. This time, he speaks... 

"Shhh, Mulder, it'll be all right. The pain will stop soon. It always does." 

He continues the gentle massage me and yes, the pain is subsiding. It will be a while before I can sit comfortably, but I know the real pain is over-- for now. Now I'm the one feeling the rapture and pure exhilaration as incredible pain diminishes. There is no other feeling like it. An orgasm is the closest thing but that's still not quite accurate. I begin to experience new tears running down my face, but these tears aren't from pain. They are from the overwhelming emotions the aftermath draws out of me. 

Now both his hands are on each of my ass cheeks, moving slowly. I let out a quivering breath. It's almost erotic, but not quite. It just isn't. I know it and he knows it. It has never been about that for either of us and it never will be. I'm pretty sure I'm heterosexual and I'd bet money that Skinner is too. At first when Skinner asked if he could apply ointment to my naked butt, I wondered about him. I wasn't sure if I should let him, but after seeing how sorry he looked, I figured he wanted to do something to make me feel better-- and I sure as hell wanted to feel better. Skinner has never got weird about it. While messaging me, he never let his fingers accidentally go into the crack of my ass or let a finger or two slide into my asshole. He just applied ointment to the surface of my butt cheeks and that's all. Besides, I don't enjoy the pain. There is no way that I'd get any kind of sexual arousal after a punishment session. The thought of experiencing pain to summon sexual feelings is insane to me. And I know Skinner isn't getting off on punishing me because he despises it too much. 

I raise myself a little so I can look back at him. He glances at me. He sees my tears, my swollen red rimmed eyes. He knows they're not from the pain now. His hands stop and I rise up further to rest on my side, causing myself to wince and groan. He kneels down next to the couch, removing the pillow from under my hips and places a hand on my upper arm. His eyes are kind and gentle. I lift my hand, placing it on his shoulder, trying to support myself and relieve some of the pressure from my ass. I lie my head down on my arm and feel Skinner's hand rubbing my upper back in a slow circular motion. I continue to sob silently and whisper false promises. At the time, I really mean them. I really do. I want to believe my words. Skinner knows at this moment, I mean it, too. Really, that's all that counts. 

This moment in time, being here with hand comforting me, making me feel secure and safe, giving me solace in my anguish. I can feel the hurt leaving me, the trembling stopping. I'm crying it all out right here -- all my pain -- of loosing my sister, Scully's cancer, everything. He continues to give me comfort, quietly telling me to let it all out... the pain is over... it'll be okay... he's here with me. And I can feel him. Once my crying subsides a little, he takes his hand off my back--severing our connection. ***No, not yet, please! It's too soon... I'm not ready.*** I gave his arm as he's getting up. 

"Whoa, Mulder. Take it easy," he says. "I'm just moving to sit on the couch so you could lie on your stomach and get off of your backside." 

I release him so he could sit at the end of the couch. He helps me turn over and lay my torso in his lap. I scoot down a little so I can wrap both my arms around his waist, resting my head on his lap. He puts his hand on my head and begins to caress my sweat dampened hair. His other arm is wrapped around my shoulders. We stay like that for a while. I want it to be forever, I always do. I need this connection now. I have my eyes closed, just feeling the sensation of being held by a man who really cares about me...stop it...it's not sexual. If anything, it's paternal. I'm finally getting the chance to feel what it might have been like to have a father who really cared about me. Skinner cares enough to give me what I need so I wouldn't get myself permanently injured or killed.   
After a while, I could feel some irritation in my ass again. It's beginning to itch a little. I start to squirm, clenching my butt cheeks. 

"What's wrong?" He asks me.

"My butt is itching something awful." I answer, wiggling.

Without a word, Skinner leans over and gets the ointment. He squeezes some in his hand and gently rubs it on my backside, relieving the itching immediately. 

"Thanks," I say, tightening my arms around him.

"Skin’s healing. I didn't break the skin but the welts were pretty raised," he said, still massaging me tenderly. 

"Believe me, I could feel it." I groan a little, thanking God his hands aren't hard and callused. 

He takes his hand off of my ass and places it back on my back, then resumes caressing my hair. "You okay now?" he asks. 

He knows if I'm able to make conversation, I must be feeling better. 

"Yeah, yeah, I am," I say, releasing my grasp around his waist and raising myself up. This causes him to take his arm from my back and his hand off my head. He leans back so I can get off his lap and lean up on the couch. 

Then the time always comes when we both know it's over. No more caressing and no more cuddling. When we come back to the way it was before, the way we were before: before the beating, before the pain. This time is always very awkward for both of us. We have to come from a moment of genuine intimacy to the harsh, official reality of a boss and subordinate relationship. I suddenly am very naked and flustered. I move off the couch grabbing my underwear, trying to quickly pull them up without causing myself too much pain.

I glance at Skinner and I know he's also feeling the awkwardness. He gets up from the couch and prepares to leave. He replaces his belt in his pants and puts the paddle back in his briefcase. I continue to dress, pulling on my sweats and T-shirt. Skinner always makes sure I have sweats to put on afterwards. I'm feeling less vulnerable now that I'm dressed. I stand there watching him. He tries to avoid looking directly at me, although he knows I'm looking at him. He always does this. I know he feels guilty. Finally, he stands-- his coat on and briefcase in hand, ready to go. At this time, he looks at my tear-stained face then into my eyes. I return the look, seeing the sorrow there. I stay where I am, lowering my eyes momentarily. I let him feel what he needs to feel. My eyes meet his again and I try to make them smile. Then my lips form a slight smile. It's my turn to reassure, to tell him it's okay. And it is. It's always okay in the end. 

He walks over to my front door then turns to look at me. He gives me a weak smile then turns, placing his hand on the knob, twisting it and pulling the door open. Pausing for one instant, he opens the door wider and walks through without looking back, pulling the door shut behind him. 

I'm still rooted to my spot, staring at the door, feeling a great sense of loss. I always feel more alone during this time than at any other time in my life. This is when I wish I had someone here with me-- perhaps a lover to hold me and stay the night. I have nothing now, no one-- just the pain. I don't even have my faithful companion, porn. The idea of sitting or lying on the couch right now would not be too comfortable. I wrap my arms around my chest, in a conscious effort to give myself some comfort, but it doesn't work. It never does. I sigh, releasing my embrace and walk toward the bathroom. I'm going to take a nice cool shower. I always do. The cool water soothes the burning in my ass, not to mention my soul. After that, I'll go off to my actual bedroom, exhausted. Lying face down on my couch tonight would only bring a sleepless night and memories, if not nightmares. I usually never have nightmares after a beating, but there's always a first time. Tomorrow is Saturday-- thank God. He always makes sure he disciplines me on a Friday or Saturday so I'd have a day or two to recuperate. What a thoughtful man. How could I hate him? With that thought, I walk into the bathroom, continuing the routine of the aftermath. 

 

THE END


End file.
